GREEN INK
PATRICIA BOYLE

TARA PULLED BACK THE BEDROOM CURTAIN, revealing paisley patterns of frost that glittered on the window in the weak morning light. Through the missing slat in the wooden fence she saw Mrs. Adriatico’s sheets hanging on the clothesline, stiff rectangles that brushed the frozen tips of the meager lawn. Marco must be very ill for Mrs. Adriatico to leave the laundry on the line overnight. A bell rang, and Tara shrugged on her terrycloth robe to answer the summons. In spite of the cold, a smile lit her face; the frost was beautiful, and its beauty cost her nothing. She held its delicate image in her mind while she went to see what her father wanted.

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“Good morning, Dad. How’d you sleep?”

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“Fair enough, but I’m chilly. Fetch me a blanket, will you?”

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Tara pulled a soft blue one from the linen closet and laid it on top of the quilt that covered her father, blurring the outline of his thin body. “I’ll bring you breakfast before I go to work,” she said, planting a kiss on his forehead.

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When Tara was ready for the day, they chatted over cups of Lipton’s tea sweetened with small dollops of honey. She enjoyed the conversations they had while they waited for Donna, Dad’s daytime caregiver, to arrive. Today her father was restless. He picked at the blanket, and his gaze ranged around the tidy room, resting briefly on one item before shifting to another. “Why’re you leaving so early for work nowadays? They givin’ you more hours?” 

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“No, Dad, I’m walking instead of taking the car. For the exercise.” She added the last to forestall any questions. Dad might be bedridden, but his mind was as active as ever. As soon as she saved up for a new fuel pump and whatever else her worn out car needed, she’d be back to driving. But she didn’t want him to worry about those repairs, or the others that needed doing around the house. She’d get to them, one at a time.

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Dad interrupted her thoughts. “Last night I dreamt you and Howard lived in a grand house in Albany, all marble and glass. I’m truly sorry about Howard, darlin’. Whatever happened to him?”

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Tara winced at the name. They had made such plans, she and Howard—finish community college and then get their bachelor’s degrees at a state university. He wanted to be an engineer, and she would go into teaching. She could have the summers off to spend more time with the kids they’d have one day. That was the plan. Then Tara’s mother got cancer and died, and her father fell apart. “Where’d that come from Dad? I’m long over Howard. He transferred to Oswego. Last I heard he got a job in Rochester. He’s married now, with a baby on the way.” True to form, she thought. He stuck with the plan. Just with a different woman.

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 “In the dream, you wanted me to move to your fancy house, but I told you I was stayin’ here. Fancy don’t suit me.” He ran a hand through his snowy white hair. “That part’s true, anyway. This house may be small, but it’s been my home for so long, I couldn’t bear to move.”

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“I know, Dad, I know. Like you always say, it’s paid for, and your pension covers Donna and the heat. There’s no sense in moving anywhere else.” She patted his arm, then poured him a second cup of tea and put on her coat. Donna arrived, letting in a blast of cold air when she opened the back door. She handed a pebbly, gray shingle to Tara. “Winter’s nipping at our heels. This slid off your roof. Didn’t want you slippin’ on it,” she said. “You’d do well to put on a scarf, Tara. Thin as you are, the cold’ll chill you to the bone.”

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“Yes ma’am,” Tara said, giving the matronly woman a hug. She donned a hat and plaid scarf she grabbed from a peg on the wall and closed the door quickly, taking the shingle with her. When she put it in the garage behind her useless car, she kicked a tire in frustration. The roof would have to wait. Walking to work might be good exercise, but it wasn’t worth stiff fingers and frozen toes.

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It began to snow when she was two blocks from home. An hour later, when she arrived at Stationary of Schenectady, she was thoroughly chilled, despite the scarf and her knitted gloves. The bell jingled as she entered, and her co-worker Jamaya looked up from a pile of greeting cards she was sorting. Business had picked up over the last few months, but there were no customers in the store at the moment. Tara didn’t expect any until the day got warmer.

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Jamaya shook her head, her curls the color of orange marmalade bobbing around her bronze face. “You look like a snow angel. We could put you out front for advertising. You’re a right pretty picture—white hair, red nose, pink cheeks.”

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“Jam, that kind of advertising would chase the customers away,” Tara laughed. She hung up her things in the back room and brushed the snow out of her hair. When she returned to the salesroom, Jamaya handed her an envelope.

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“I’ve got good news for you, angel. We’re getting a raise. When New York increased the minimum wage for fast food workers, the newspaper said other employers might do the same. They’re right. Management’s spelled it out in the letter.” She gave the envelope a tap. “Read it and celebrate.”

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When she finished reading, Tara gave a low whistle. “Fifteen dollars an hour! It’ll take a couple of steps, sure, but it’ll be fifteen eventually. We make ten dollars an hour now, so, a fifty percent raise. What’ll you do with the money, Jam?”

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Her friend’s eyes were sparkling. “Jackson’s company gave him a raise too. When our lease is up next summer, we’re moving to a new apartment. Bigger. With lots of windows. Sammy’ll be in first grade next year. It’s time he got his own bedroom. He’s shared ours long enough. What about you?”

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 “I’m not sure. It’s a lot of money. It’ll take some thinking.” A series of images flashed through Tara’s mind: her wreck of a car, shingles falling off the roof, a broken window in the bathroom. Her eye lit on a pen, one of the new ones that had arrived in the last shipment. It was fat, with a peacock feather design. She’d tried it out a couple of days ago, delighted with the color of the green ink. Teal, not ordinary green, she thought. She liked the sound of the word. Teal. It conjured up images of an exotic life. Dad would say the pen was too fancy for the likes of them. Tara thought it held possibilities. When she had first seen it, she told herself it was too impractical and expensive. Work forms had to be filled out in blue or black ink. The car needed repair.

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With a sidelong look at Jamaya, she picked up the pen and studied the feather design. It reminded her of the frost pattern she had seen on the window that morning. She thought of her diary, where she recorded her dreams of the life she’d live one day. A fancier life. She didn’t share those hopes with her father. He’d never understand her need for something beyond the simple life they lived. There was no need to tell him about the pen.

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A journal with a floral patterned cover was propped up next to the pen display. Maybe next week she’d buy the journal. She could get seeds and fill the backyard with flowers and vegetables next spring. Her father wouldn’t approve of too many flowers, but he would appreciate the vegetables. Besides, it was time she started thinking of herself. Maybe she would save up for a deposit on a place of her own.

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Last month she’d bought a plant at the nursery for her father’s birthday. She remembered the man who had helped her. He was friendly, and she figured he was around her age. He took the time to show her several different plants and explain how to care for each one. He was also easy on the eyes, with that black hair and aristocratic nose. She could ask him to help her plan the garden. Maybe she would take him out to lunch to thank him . . . She felt herself blush. Shaking herself out of her reverie, she placed the pen on the counter by the register, and retrieved her wallet from the back room.